


devils and ghosts

by Ejunkiet



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Introspection, Shameless Smut, Thunderstorms, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, You've been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 19:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7119433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank turns up on her fire escape at two o’clock in the morning in the middle of the worst storm that’s hit the city since Karen moved to New York. She lets him in.</p><p>--</p><p>  <em>Frank tastes of rain water and coffee.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	devils and ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evil_bunny_king](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/gifts).



> _now give me that fire_ \- [Fire by Barns Courtney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AKehIzEQCo)  
>  \--
> 
> Also known as 'Storming the Castle'. Bless you, evil_bunny_king, for your ridiculous and wonderful prompts. This has an M rating, as apparently fanfic authors demonstrate their love for each other through writing smut. You have been warned.

It was at times like this that Karen was reminded that she lived on the East Coast, where the weather was a bitter, unpredictable bastard. The day had started off beautifully - clear blue skies with moderate highs and more of the same predicted for the afternoon - but then the storm that had been building off of the coast had turned inland and her day had taken a drastic turn for the worse. She’d left her apartment this morning with little more than a light spring jacket and flats, and by the time she’d left the office, she’d been stranded almost literally without a paddle in the middle of the worst storm she’d encountered during her time in New York City.

And of course, to compound an already shitty day, the water seeping through the fabric of her favourite pair of flats smelled like shit, a combination of the grime and filth that had built up on the sidewalks of her neighbourhood over the summer months. Apparently, the city funded cleaning programs didn’t stretch out as far as the Kitchen; she doesn’t want to imagine just what she’s walking through, what she can feel squelching around her toes.

By the time Karen makes it back to her apartment, she’s been soaked by not one but _two_ asshole taxi drivers who hadn’t had the decency to avoid the large, swamp-like puddles that littered the road on her way home. She’s sick of this city, of its stink and the general assholery of the populace, and she doesn’t hesitate when she makes it back to her apartment, stripping out of her wet things on the way to the bathroom and tossing them in the general direction of her laundry basket before she all but tumbles into the shower.

She wishes her apartment had a bath, but the water is hot and doesn’t run out, and it will do.

Her mood has improved by the time she’s left the shower and changed into something more comfortable; a loose pair of shorts, bra and oversized tee. She's just rubbing a towel through her hair when there's a clatter against the window that houses the fire escape, a loud rap of knuckles against the glass.

Her good mood disappears almost as quickly as it had appeared as she glances towards the clock on the far wall. There were only a few reasons people called on her at two o’clock in the morning without ringing ahead, and none of them were good.

Dropping the towel, she gets quickly and quietly to her feet, grabbing the can of pepper spray she keeps in a drawer by the door. Finger on the trigger, she inches towards the window, squinting through the streams of water hitting the glass -- but it turns out to be a wasted gesture as she recognises the waterlogged figure perched on the railing outside.

"Well, shit.”

She wastes no time flipping back the deadbolts she’d secured to the frame, yanking the cracking wooden frame open until she can meet her impromptu visitor face-to-face.

“Frank.”

He’s looking a little worse for wear, but nothing beyond the usual; his face a meshwork of bruises and scrapes, although they’re older, yellowing and fading at the edges. His expression is chagrined at least as he meets her gaze, blinking through the sheets of water that cascade down his face.

"Hey. Didn’t mean to drop in on you like this."

She considers the options before her, flirting with the idea of leaving him out there to fend for himself against the elements, but her better nature wins through, and she pushes the window open wider, letting him through.

"How long have you been there?" He doesn't quite meet her eye, and that tells her that he'd probably been here since she'd first gotten back to her apartment. Her cheeks warm at that - she hadn't thought to draw the curtains, having grown complacent due to the fact that she had no neighbours facing out that way, just a brick wall and iron railing - but she sets her jaw and steps back, giving him enough space to clamber over the frame, dripping water and god knows what else onto her hardwood floors. Even bedraggled and half-drowned, he still makes an imposing figure when he pulls himself to his full height.

She grimaces at the mess he’s tracked onto her floor, gesturing in the general vicinity of her bathroom. “Shower’s through there. Try to limit the amount of water damage to my apartment, please.”

He nods, shrugging out of his jacket, dropping it on the floor by the window with a heavy _thunk_ and when he reaches for his shirt she turns away, granting him a semblance of privacy.

“I can’t promise that there’s any hot water left,” she warns over her shoulder as she moves into the kitchen, falling into the familiar motions of preparing a fresh pot of coffee, and the simple task does well to distract her from the fact that she can hear the wet thud of his clothing hitting the floor.

The situation is surreal: it’s been weeks since she’d last heard from Frank Castle and now he’s here, stripping off his clothes and dripping water all over her apartment. It’s ridiculous, really, especially with how long it's been since she’s entertained company, and she’s not really sure what to make of the fact that he’s here; that it’s her apartment he turns up at in the middle of the night.

She lets out a long, slow breath as she leans against the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. If she was being honest with herself, she doesn't care about the reasons _why_ he's here. All that matters is that he is, and she focuses on that as she reaches over to grab two mugs from the cabinet above the sink.

She nearly drops them when Frank's voice comes from right behind her, low and measured as he asks, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Jesus Christ, Frank.” She lowers the mugs onto the counter, spinning on her heel until she can face him. He’s dressed in just a pair of dark sweats, wrinkled, as if he’d been carrying them in the rucksack he’d brought with him into her apartment, using the material of his shirt to dry his hair as he pauses in the entrance to her kitchen. He looks almost normal, like a friend dropping by to borrow her shower, and it’s an image that she’s finding hard to reconcile with him, with what she knows and what he’s shown her.

Frank’s eyes are steady on hers as he takes in her reaction, and his tone is apologetic when he says, “Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s – fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“That pot ready?”

She nods, and he drops the shirt onto a nearby counter, apparently prioritising coffee over a shower as he makes a beeline for the pot as her coffee maker beeps and the kitchen fills with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee. It’s strange and domestic to work with him like this, handing him the mugs she’d been reaching for when he asks for them, and he fills them both to the brim, passing one to her as he takes one for himself.

He takes a long breath, inhaling the steam, his eyes closing briefly before he meets her gaze again. “You’ve changed the beans.”

“Special at the farmers market. Fair trade.”

He grunts, taking a sip. “It’s good.”

She takes a closer look at him, and sees the hints of his nocturnal activities; a recently broken nose, the swelling faint but present around the bridge of his nose and the shadows smudged beneath both of his eyes. She can’t imagine the extent of the damage he’s caused himself over the months – years, nearly – that he’s been doing this.

He finishes his first cup quickly, reclaiming the pot to pour another before he glances back at her. His eyes are dark, expectant; he’s waiting for an answer, and it takes her a moment to remember the question.

_Are you sure you’re okay with this?_

“I wouldn’t have let you in if I wasn’t okay with this, Frank.”

He’s still watching her steadily though, and she holds his gaze. There were moments like this with him where he pushed at the boundaries of what they’ve left unsaid; the reason why she lets him in, and the reason he keeps coming back.

“Okay,” he says, finally.

“Okay,” she agrees, but she can still feel his eyes on her, the heavy weight of it as he lifts his mug to his lips and tilts it back, draining the last of it.

She eyes the line of his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, before glancing away, grip tightening around the mug in her hands. _Focus_. “What brings you to the neighbourhood, Frank?”

“The usual.” His tone is milder than it was previously, the tension between them easing a fraction as he goes to refill his mug again, reaching for hers. She hands it to him without a second thought – with the work she has ahead of her, she’s going to need it tonight – but raises a brow as she glances towards the window and the signs of the ongoing storm.

“I can’t imagine you’d have much to do in this weather.”

He lets out a low laugh as he hands her back her mug, filled to the top and still steaming. “You’d be surprised.”

Flashes of the crime scene photos she’s received over the last year, photographic evidence of the carnage he’s left behind, flicker to the forefront of her mind; but she shoves them back, glancing down and away. It’s late, and this isn’t the time to rehash old arguments.

He seems to have the same idea, as he changes the subject when he speaks again. “Thought you’d be back earlier.”

Karen waits until after she’s taken a seat at the kitchen table before answering the question, taking a moment to organize her thoughts. Frank doesn’t pressure her for an answer, taking another long drag of coffee. He looks comfortable, standing there in her cramped little kitchen, his shirt abandoned on the counter behind him. His expression is contemplative, but Karen knows Frank better than most, and she can see the twitch in his trigger finger from across the room, recognise the edge in his gaze when he says it.

“I’ve been working on a story,” she starts, before hesitating.

She hadn’t been planning on elaborating any further than that, but the thought occurs to her that maybe – maybe she should. Frank was many things, both good and bad, but there was no question about the effectiveness of his methods. She may not like what he does, or what it makes him, but there’s no denying that his activities gave him a unique insight into the situation, which is what she desperately needed right now.

She’s conflicted as she finishes her mental calculations and realises that this is the best option, even with the gamble that comes from associating with Frank and the trouble that follows him like a shadow. “How much do you know about the businesses that front the cartels?”

He takes a moment to consider that, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the outside of his mug before he says, “Enough. Whether or not it’ll be of any use to you, I can’t make any promises.”

“The files are on my computer. All I’m asking is for you to glance over them.”

He shrugs, barely more than a twitch of his shoulders, and gestures with his mug towards the living room, reclaiming his shirt from the counter and tugging it back over his head. “Lead the way.”

\--

Her laptop bag is a little worse for wear after its treatment by the storm, but the computer itself is fine, and it doesn’t take her long to pull up the relevant files for her article. Despite her initial reservations, it turns out that what Frank knows _can_ help – and together they begin to piece together a list of larger business partners suspected to be affiliated with the new, rapidly expanding narcotics trade that’s entered the city, sketching out the shape of the new players of Hell’s Kitchen.

It’s a big scoop, possibly one of the largest the paper’s seen since the Union Allied Scandal, and she has to take a moment to consider that, consider the implications. Like with Union Allied, she was poking a hornets nest, except one with a less public face. She’d have to handle this delicately, possibly even pass on the larger story altogether, handing over what she’s collected to the DEA. Although, when she glances at Frank and sees his expression, cool and calculating, she realises that their intervention would likely arrive too late.

She looks back at the coffee table and the mess of papers spread out across it, and closes the dimmed screen of her laptop. Slotting it back into its bag beneath the table, she tries not to think about the repercussions of their activities tonight, and how her gamble had failed.

Instead, she collects their mugs from her coffee table and makes her way into the kitchen, rinsing them off before leaving them in the sink. It’s easier to focus on logistics, to glance at the window and the ongoing storm before turning back to Frank and asking, “Are you staying the night?”

“Do you want me to?” Frank’s back in the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed in front of his broad chest as he leans against the frame. He’s watching her she realises; has been for god knows how long, his eyes dark and unreadable in the low light.

She glances away, not quite comfortable with meeting his gaze at the moment; focusing instead on the storm outside as she lets out a low laugh. “I’m not kicking you out in this. You can have the couch.”

She goes to walk past him, still avoiding his gaze until he reaches out to place a hand on her arm, bringing her to a stop.

“Karen.” It’s softly spoken, and he ducks his head until he can catch her gaze, his eyes piercing, keeping her in place.

“I want you to stay,” she manages, finally. Her ears burn, the flush rising on her cheeks. She can’t say why. She can’t put into words the mire of her feelings for him, but she means it when she says it, and her teeth dig into her bottom lip as she watches him, waiting for his reaction.

If he does have a reaction to her statement, it’s not obvious, and he doesn’t show it. They’re in close proximity now, a fact which becomes harder and harder to ignore the longer they stay there. Frank’s warm and damp at her side, the material of his shirt still not quite dry after its use as a towel earlier, and the fact that he’s brought the storm with him into her apartment should piss her off, should be grounds enough for her to kick him out, and yet…

When it happens, it’s almost by accident; her lips parting as his thumb smooths across the skin of her arm, her eyes drawn to his lips when he licks them. She forces her gaze up, away – only to find his eyes on her, dark and unwavering, watching her with similar intensity.

Between one heartbeat and the next, they come together.

Frank tastes of rain water and coffee. His mouth chases hers, his kisses hard, almost bruising as he threads his fingers through her hair and she reaches for him, clinging to his shoulders as she matches him push for push, stroke for stroke. It’s electric, the feeling of his mouth against hers, and she bites at his lower lip, eliciting a groan that she can feel all the way through to her toes. His hands drop to her back, her waist, fingertips pressing into her skin, scouring long lines across her body that she’s sure she’ll see tomorrow, but she finds she doesn’t mind it – or more specifically, she doesn’t _care_.

Still, she gets the feeling he’s holding back, even as he pulls her close, hands splayed across her hip and lower back, clutching her to him as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear when he lets her go.

When they finally break apart to breathe, he doesn’t go far, trailing a line of kisses down her jaw and throat until she’s gasping for entirely different reasons. Making a snap decision that she’s not quite thought through, she pushes him back, pulling at his damp shirt. “Off, this needs to - off.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His eyes are creased at the corners, threatening a smile as he reaches up to tug his shirt over his shoulders, revealing the scarred planes of his chest. This is the first time she’s been able to look, _really_ look, at him like this and she takes full advantage of the opportunity, gaze flickering over the familiar lines, the broad shoulders and lean muscles that added weight to his presence.

He’s gotten leaner, more rugged than when she last saw him– or maybe she’s just not used to the harsh lines of his body without the armour, the tapestry of his actions displayed openly on his skin. It’s not like she gets many opportunities to see him like this, bare and exposed - and even then her attention was caught by more immediate problems, like bullets wounds or burst stitches. Seeing him now, like this, gives her the urge to reach out and trace the lines that crisscross his body, and it takes her a moment to realise that she _can_ , that she has his permission.

So she does, reaching out to trace a particularly vivid mark, one that stretches across the length of his abdomen, dangerously close to areas that couldn’t be repaired with a few quick stitches and a splash of antiseptic.

His skin is hot to the touch, almost burning, and she glances up to find him watching her movements. His eyes are darker than she’s ever seen them, shadowed in the half-light of her apartment, and when she opens her mouth to ask him about that particular scar, he moves back in, reclaiming her mouth with an intensity that sends her reeling, heart rate ricocheting within the confines of her chest.

It’s not long before Frank’s the one tugging at the hem of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head, leaving her in just her bra and shorts before he wraps his hands around her thighs and lifts her onto the counter. His gaze is heavy and dark on hers as his hands skim the waistband of her shorts, his fingers dipping down beneath the fabric to palm the curve of her ass and she bites her lip, arching against him as he ducks his head to suck another mark into her throat.

It’s too much and not enough all at once, and she clutches at his shoulders, pulling him closer, nails digging into his skin as he lets out a long, shuddering breath. She can feel him, hot and heavy through the fabric of his sweats, and it hits her, then, that this is really happening.

“Frank – wait-” and just like that, all activity stops. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against her shoulder, breathing heavily as his hands slide back, resettling on her hips. He’s tense, she realises, not meeting her gaze, and she pulls back a little, trying to catch his gaze.

“Frank?”

His voice is a hoarse whisper when he speaks, his grip flexing around her hips. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do this.”

“That’s not what I - we’re in the middle of the kitchen. I was just saying we should probably move.” He nods, but still doesn’t meet her gaze, and something tightens within her chest. “Frank.”

She touches his cheek, gently; encouraged by the way he leans into the touch as she presses a kiss to his jawline. Slowly, steadily, he softens beneath her touch, and she kisses his throat, her confidence growing as he swallows and reaches out to card his fingers through her hair. “Do you want to stop?”

He shakes his head with a low laugh, pulling back until he can finally meet her gaze, and she can see the traces of lust in his expression, his pupils blown to the point that his eyes appear black in the low light. “ _No._ ” his gaze flickers back over her, assessing. “Although I probably should. Do you?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation when she says it, her voice steady and confident, and he leans in, kisses her once softly, then again, deep and thorough.

 His voice is rough when he finally pulls away and asks, “Where do you want me?”

She bites her lip and glances away, and it’s that question that brings colour to her cheeks, more so than the fact that she’s sitting half naked on her kitchen counter with _Frank Castle_ cradled between her thighs. “Bedroom. _Now._ ”

\--

Frank’s hands wrap around her thighs once more, lifting her with ease as he navigates a path through her apartment into the bedroom, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

They take it slow after that, with long, easy kisses that leave them both breathless and aching, and it’s good, but it’s not enough. She wants to feel more of him, needs to feel him against her skin, but for that to happen, they need to shed their last few articles of clothing – and she pushes Frank away, breaking the kiss.

She reaches back to unhook her bra as he watches, eyes dark and glittering in the dim light coming in from the other room. They’d been too distracted to flip on the lights but that doesn’t bother her as much as it should; just something else to file away with the things they aren’t talking about; like why Frank had turned up here in the first place, or what exactly this thing between them was.

All she knows is that in this moment, she wants him, and he wants her back, and that’s _enough_.

Frank’s hands wrap around her waist, taking it slow as his thumbs massage the curve of her side, eyes never leaving hers. The pads of his fingers drag against her skin, roughened by years of coarse use as he plants another series of messy open-mouthed kisses along her throat, lingering on her clavicle until she shivers and arches into him.

_"Frank.”_

He doesn’t tease her again after that, mouthing down her chest, gently nipping at her skin as he snakes a hand between them, the pad of his thumb rough and perfect and providing just the right amount of friction. He captures her mouth with his when she curses, bucking against him, fingers digging into his shoulders, leaving sharp, red crescents, another mark amongst the dozens that litter his body.

“Jesus, Frank.”

The movement makes his breath hitch, and he hesitates for a brief moment before his grip returns to her hips, bringing her closer as he grinds up against her, and it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“Why are you still wearing _pants?”_

He laughs, more of a hoarse chuckle, eyes gleaming before he’s swinging her onto the bed, sweats abandoned as he kneels beside the bed and uses his grip on her hips to drag her forward to the edge.

His eyes are dark as his thumbs curl around the elastic of her shorts, dragging them off slowly, excruciatingly so, and she prods his shoulder with her foot.

_“Frank.”_

His eyes crinkle at the corner as he grabs the offending foot and presses a kiss against the arch, before he tosses her underwear away, lowering himself between her legs to put his mouth to better use.

She loses track of time after that. Her world narrows to Frank and his hands on her hips, holding her down as he drives her closer and closer to the edge. He sets a relentless pace, one that has her shaking and cursing beneath him before he listens to her breathless demands for him to _stop fucking around_ _already_ , she wants to _feel_ him _,_ and he climbs his way back up her body. His mouth is hot, mapping a trail of searing kisses across her skin until she fists her hands into his hair, bringing their mouths together again.

Frank’s weight settles above her, his hands scouring burning trails down her body before he breaks away from the kiss, resting his forehead against hers as he asks, “Are you sure?”

She’s torn between the urge to kiss him again or punch him. “I'm pretty sure we've already passed the point of no return, Frank." The trail of clothing littering her floor attests to that, as does the fact that they’re in this position, the evidence of his interest lying heavily against her thigh.

She arches her body into his, taking advantage of their new position to press against him until he shudders, his eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sure, Frank. Are you?”

He cracks open an eye, regarding her steadily over the flush that’s darkened his cheeks. He moves, his hand at her back anchoring them together as he rocks against her and she has to bite down on her lip to stifle a whimper. “I think you know the answer to that.”

There’s not much time for talk after that.

\--

After, it’s quiet and intimate, the fervour in their blood died down, and she has a chance to think about what this is, what this means. She doesn’t regret it, can’t regret it – the thing that has been building between them, the unspoken thing that let him in when she should really turn him away, that had him turning up on her doorstep every other week – won’t let her.

His body is curved around hers; his face nestled into her hair, his breath warm against the back of her neck. It tickles and she squirms until his arms wrap around her midsection, pulling her flush against him to hold her still. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t hoped for this outcome, and she lets out a small sigh, relaxing back into his grip.

They stay like that for another few moments, curled around each other, the air filled with the soft hush of their breathing. He’s not asleep yet, and neither is she, although the tug is there, at the edges of her consciousness. She fights it, needing to get this out in the open, now.

“Will you stay?”

“Dangerous words, Ms. Page.”

“I think we’re past titles, Frank.

He takes in a breath, holding it as he presses his face into her neck, leaving a trail of kisses down to the junction of her shoulder. 

“I want to,” he admits, quietly. He pulls back, waits until she’s shifted around to face him, eyes flickering across her features, and for once, she can read him, his expression open and raw. There’s desire there, burning deep within his gaze, tempered with a longing that makes her breath catch within her throat. But there’s fear there, too, however brief, and he glances away, hiding his expression from her once more.

His voice is gruff when he continues, “I can’t make you any promises. I can’t give you security. You know what I am.”

“I knew that before we fell into bed together, Frank.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, and she presses a kiss to the parts of him she can reach, butterfly soft across the bruises until he raises his head again and meets her gaze. “To be honest, ma’am, you should take one good look and get the hell away from me.”

His words are an echo of the ones he’d used that night in the diner, bodies at his feet and his clothes splattered with the blood of men who’d tried – twice – to take her life. As always with Frank, the situation was morally grey; mired somewhere in between ruthless, vicious retribution and something darker, more primal.

“Like I said Frank, I knew that before.”

“You’re making a mistake. A huge, goddamn mistake.” But then he leans forward, capturing her mouth with his again, and it’s all-consuming, sharp, edged with the things he can’t put into words. He stays close when they break for air, something broken and desperate in his gaze, even as he says, “I’ll stay.”


End file.
